Alphabetical Order
by RavenclawGenius
Summary: Mitchsen: Aubrey's senior year at Barden is meant to be her most successful one yet - but her philosophy grade isn't quite where she wants it to be, her Bellas are practically falling apart, and Aubrey is fairly certain that it's entirely Beca Mitchell's fault. AU. (Rated T for now, but will likely change later on.)
_Author's Note:_ I needed a tiny break from the ongoing smut of Burn the Day, and then this thing happened. I hope you enjoy it, but, just so we're clear, I make absolutely zero promises regarding updates. Let me know what you think, though, and if there's enough interest, I'll try to get around to an update sooner rather than later.

Also, **this is an AU**. In this reality, Beca never attended the activities fair, and never joined the Bellas.

* * *

Aubrey loathes assigned seating.

It's a relatively new dislike, for the blonde, and she's never honestly had a problem with it in the past, but she's beginning to appreciate why all of her teachers from middle school onward have always threatened to use it as punishment, and why her peers have always shuddered at the mere suggestion.

Aubrey understands why assigned seating is so frequently employed – students are unruly at the best of times, and even more so when they can seat themselves near similar-minded, douchebag friends who will encourage further disruptive and obnoxious behavior – but that doesn't change the fact that, right now, Aubrey _loathes it._

It isn't like there's anyone specific in this too-small class of thirty who Aubrey would actually like to sit with, instead; frankly, Aubrey doesn't typically _care_ who she sits parallel to for fifty minutes every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Aubrey typically has no actual _reason_ to care.

She is a perfect student.

Aubrey has made the Dean's List for three consecutive years, and she didn't achieve that commendation by Facebooking during lecture or gossiping with her friends in the back row. She isn't easily distracted, and she sort of prides herself on that, but the caveat of assigned seating is that when Aubrey atypically _becomes_ distracted – perhaps due to a dangerously careless, freshman _girl,_ with oddly fitting piercings and sweeping lines of ink decorating the pale, porcelain color of her skin – Aubrey isn't _allowed_ to escape that distraction.

Because this is her assigned seat, and Aubrey can't switch desks just to put some distance between the two of them for no obvious, justifiable reason.

She's pretty, Aubrey can admit that much. Not Bellas sort of pretty, she amends swiftly – though, with the rag-tag group of girls that she and Chloe have put together for their final year, maybe Aubrey should rethink the idea of using her Bellas as a standard for traditional femininity; still, when the girl's neck isn't tipped back with her lids firmly closed in sleep, to Aubrey's right, her eyes are a surprisingly soft and curiously, intensely guarded sort of blue that Aubrey somehow never expects, and there's this thing that happens with her hair that makes it look like she came to class right off of a photo shoot for a high end shampoo ad.

Her hair truly is fantastic. Aubrey tries not to notice – because she thinks there's a good chance that the way she feels about it might be closer to admiration than jealousy, and Aubrey honestly just does not _need that,_ right now – but the freshman's hair is glossy and sleek and practically perfect, and when the sun peeks through the windows at the far end of the classroom, sometimes Aubrey swears that this girl's hair is what the color bronze is actually meant to look like.

Her name is Beca – and Aubrey only knows that because apparently her father teaches at Barden, too, and Professor Howard had once pitched a joke toward the class that she insisted Beca Mitchell must understand, after growing up with a professor in the family; that joke had fallen awkwardly flat when the small brunette had only lofted a single, unimpressed brow upward, before blatantly – and seriously aca- _rudely,_ Aubrey remembers thinking incredulously – shoving a bulky pair of headphones over top of her ears, right in the middle of class.

Aubrey's never actually spoken to her, and she thinks that Beca is a little too devil-may-care for her tastes, anyway, so that's probably for the best – but, _God,_ she's nice to look at.

The blonde honestly can't even help herself. She's sex-deprived and gay and she has a _pulse_ , for Christ's sake, and Beca Mitchell is fucking _gorgeous._

And it really doesn't help that she shows up to class every other day with a top that somehow seems even lower cut than the last. That's enough to divert Aubrey's attention, all on its own – Beca has very pretty skin, and her breasts are both generous and even objectively beautiful – but what makes it worse is that Aubrey is _curious._

It's because she can't get a read on the girl, Aubrey tells herself regularly, and it's probably at least half true.

There had been a month or so where Aubrey had watched the small brunette with suspicion – and Aubrey thinks that's fair, given Beca's **do not approach if you have any respect for your own life** body language, and all of her tattoos and make-up and piercings.

(Aubrey was raised in upper-middle class suburbia; things like that are frowned upon, and Aubrey won't be blamed for judging.)

Still, Beca never said a word or even glanced her way for the entirety of those four weeks, and, after a while, Aubrey really had no evidence to support her abundant suspicion.

But Aubrey still _watches her,_ even when she doesn't mean to, and if the idea of that weren't unsettling and creepy enough, to begin with, Aubrey thinks about that girl considerably more than could ever be appropriate.

Some days Beca will show up to class with a latte in hand, skinny jeans scrunching at the ankles where they meet with a pair of beat-up Chuck Taylors; she usually wears a band t-shirt, on those days, or a plaid flannel over top of a basic-colored tank top. On other days, Beca practically bedazzles her ears with studs and hoops, dons a multitude of rings just above the knuckle of each of her slim, tiny fingers, and strings choker necklaces with silver accents around the slim column of her throat; she wears nothing brighter than a woodsy green, and straps combat boots over her feet, and even though Aubrey isn't a fan of the overall alternative style, it also doesn't escape her notice that Beca manages to pull it off magnificently. And, still, there are those few, rare days when Beca dresses just like practically every other girl on campus – jeans and heeled, leather boots with tasteful jewelry and a shirt that sweeps a little loosely across her chest with a light jacket to wear over top.

None of that is really _relevant_ to anything, the blonde admits, except that- Aubrey's _noticed._

She should be focused on her notes and on the PowerPoint at the front of the class, but, instead, Aubrey is noticing what her desk mate is _wearing,_ and wondering how she possibly makes decisions on what to wear, in the first place, with such a vast array of styles to choose from every morning.

It's only a freshman-level philosophy course, Aubrey grants – and mentally applauds herself for leaving all of her free electives for her senior year, especially now that she needs the extra time and energy to devote toward strategizing for the Bellas – but it still counts toward her GPA, and Aubrey has no real background knowledge about philosophy to help her along if she falls a lesson behind. She really should find a way to focus.

Still, _knowing_ that doesn't actually help Aubrey to _do it._

She truthfully doesn't even know why Beca shows up to class at all. There _is_ an attendance policy in place, Aubrey acknowledges reluctantly, but Beca obviously isn't concerned about her academic performance, and Aubrey wonders why the brunette would even care enough to bother with the ten percent of their grade accorded for participation.

Plus, from what Aubrey can tell, all Beca ever does in class is sleep, anyway – which is probably why it's almost offensively impressive (and also _exceedingly_ aggravating) that Beca manages one of only three perfect scores in their class, on the first exam.

Aubrey's isn't one of them.

She gets a perfectly respectable ninety-seven, but, on principle, Aubrey is furious. Beca is undeniably pretty, but she's also _lazy,_ and it can't be fair that she naps all through class, every day, all week long, and still scores higher than Aubrey, whose only distraction is the girl who sleeps at her right and doesn't give a fuck about being in class one way or the other.

Beca hardly glances at her exam paper, when they're returned, and Aubrey isn't even sure if she's _noticed_ the stark, red one-hundred circled at the top. The brunette just shoves the paper haphazardly into her bag, and throws it across her left shoulder the very instant Professor Howard dismisses the class.

Instinctively, Aubrey fingers grasp at the loose adjustment strap falling from the opposite band of Beca's backpack, and the brunette whirls around so swiftly in response that it nearly gives Aubrey whiplash. Beca reaches small fingers up to her ears to swing the cups of her headphones irritably around her neck, brows furrowing in admittedly adorable confusion, and Aubrey clears her throat awkwardly, for a moment, just to stall for time.

"Dude, _what?"_ Beca frowns eventually.

"How did you do that?" Aubrey blurts gracelessly.

She feels the flush swelling through her cheeks, but Aubrey's inappropriate interest in this girl has got to _stop,_ and she thinks the only way to _eradicate_ that interest is to systematically destroy the mystery of Beca Mitchell until Aubrey can understand it.

Maybe then she won't be so distracting. Or intimidating.

Because, oh yes, Beca certainly is _that._

Her mouth is set into a flat, neutral line, like Beca is prepared for either a smile or a sneer, if necessary, and her brows rise expectantly into the line of dark, pretty hair. She shuffles her bag impatiently over her shoulder, and Aubrey thinks that if Beca were a different type of girl, she might actually be tapping her foot to indicate annoyance.

"Do what?" Beca returns, deadpan.

Aubrey swallows, and her confidence isn't exactly boosted by the reply, but she supposes that Beca can't be asked to answer a question that was only half-voiced, in the first place.

"You show up _literally_ just to sign your name on the attendance sheet," Aubrey huffs, sweeping a frustratingly misplaced lock of hair behind her ear with a swift, stilted movement that betrays her discomfort. "You sleep all through class!" Aubrey declares with a furious, indignant hiss. "How do you wind up with a perfect exam score?"

"Are you jealous?" Beca asks, and there's this tiny, little- _thing_ that slides across the edges of her mouth, and it causes the blonde's breath to hitch on its way out.

Aubrey thinks that thing is a smirk, but she also thinks that she's probably been using that word out of context for quite some time now, because she's never seen the expression executed so fluently or naturally or just _perfectly_ in her entire life; the way it sits on Beca's mouth – just a little bit cocky, but still playful, and clearly designed more to rattle the opponent than anything else – is strangely- _attractive,_ to Aubrey. And that's something that Aubrey really just can't have.

Learning about Beca is meant to _reduce_ her interest in the girl, not increase it.

"No, I'm thrilled for you," the blonde snarks instinctively, and cringes instantly.

She isn't _intending_ to be so rude, or accusing; it's just- she doesn't really know how to respond to Beca. There's something uncomfortable settling in her stomach, and her heart is way off from its normal rhythm, pulsing just a little bit too hard against her ribs, and Aubrey is convinced that it is Beca Mitchell's fault.

"Wow. Yeah, I can see that," Beca nods agreeably, but the smirk never slips, even for a second, and Aubrey crosses her arms and rolls her eyes, in answer.

"You _must_ see how that's unfair," Aubrey insists stubbornly. "You must understand why I'm so angry, when there are other students who work _infinitely_ harder than you do and devote _considerably_ more attention to the course, and still don't perform as well as you have."

"So, just to be clear," Beca grins amusedly, fingers curling over the strap of her bag as she adjusts it to sit a little higher up on her shoulder, "I'm supposed to feel bad that you didn't do as well as me because you've been too busy checking out my boobs to actually learn shit?"

" _What?"_ Aubrey breathes incredulously.

She probably shouldn't feel as offended as she does – Beca is _right,_ and Aubrey _knows it –_ but the accusation makes it feel more sordid than it had actually been, at the time, and Aubrey lurches instantly into her defense.

"I'm sorry if I find it difficult to focus when your tits are falling out of your top like a pornographic offering to any horny college kid looking to get laid, but I find it wildly inappropriate," Aubrey replies haughtily.

And, really, Aubrey truthfully needs to learn how to behave under pressure; it's never been her forte, but, now that contact has been made, with Beca – a decision Aubrey is beginning to thoroughly regret – she's going to have to get her aca-shit together, just in the event that she ever needs to speak to this girl, ever again.

" _Inappropriate?"_ Beca scoffs with a wholehearted laugh. "Dude, we're in _college._ Chicks sunbathe all over the quad in bikinis that hardly even count as _clothes_ , and _I'm_ the one being inappropriate?"

"At least they don't take their shit to class with them," Aubrey grumbles, heatedly gathering her books and shoving them into her own bag.

"No, no," Beca insists with an amused, mocking smile. "Don't go. This is actually getting interesting."

"I have a thing. The Bellas," Aubrey replies stiffly. "I'm the Captain, so I really need to be there. Ten minutes ago," she insists pointedly, and snaps both straps of her bag over her shoulders as she begins to tread toward the door. "I don't even know why I let you get me involved in this."

"Seriously?" Beca demands disbelievingly. "You _literally_ held me back. You reached out your hand and _physically_ stopped me from leaving the room, and that's somehow my fault, too? I'm starting to think you have a thing about taking responsibility, Posen."

"How _dare_ you?" Aubrey hisses instantly, then frowns. "… And how in the aca- _hell_ do you know my name?"

"How in the _what?"_ Beca snorts, and, from the very corner of her eye – because Aubrey refuses to give away that she is even looking at all – the blonde watches Beca's dark, pretty blue eyes come to life with a tiny shimmer of mirth.

"Don't avoid the question," Aubrey snaps guardedly, and purses her lips together in frustration.

Beca rolls her eyes and moves to follow Aubrey out the door. "I've been sitting next to you for over a month now. Every assignment you turn in for this bullshit, paper-only class has to pass to the right, toward the center aisle where Professor Howard's TA collects our work. I see it every other day. I know your damn name – which is really only fair, because the entire class knows mine."

"Perks of having a professor for a dad," Aubrey smiles frostily.

She doesn't mean to be so cold, it's just that- Aubrey is severely out of her element even _talking_ with this girl, and Beca clearly isn't afraid to dig beneath the blonde's skin. She's feeling defensive, and a little bit judged – which isn't honestly even fair, because Aubrey is surrounded by acapella lovers practically every day of her life, and it isn't her fault that it's difficult to phase out the vernacular when in the company of others.

Still, the brunette's posture seems to instantly stiffen, before Beca shrugs and coolly snaps, "Whatever, Posen. How about you just stay out of my shit, and I'll stay out of yours – not that I even did anything wrong, in the first place," she grumbles beneath her breath, shoving Aubrey's shoulder a little as she surges forward to pass her.

Aubrey sighs deeply with regret, and practically kicks herself for her obvious lack of finesse.

She hadn't even intended to speak with Beca Mitchell at all, and certainly not today; it had really only been an impulse, to begin with, and the blonde's hand had shot out to still the brunette before Aubrey had even afforded herself an opportunity to determine _why._

Still, Aubrey should probably have thought this through, because that interaction probably hadn't gone as well as it could have, under better circumstances and with kinder words.


End file.
